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LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 
AND  OTHER  POEMS 


JOHN  MASEFIELD 


LIBRARY 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 
AND    OTHER    POEMS 


THIS  FIRST  EDITION  OF 
"LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND 
OTHER  POEMS "  IS  LIMITED 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS 


BY 
JOHN  MASEFIELD 

AUTHOR  OF 

'  IHE  STORY  OF  A  ROUND  HOUSE,  AND  OTHER  POEMS," 
"THE  TRAGEDY  OF  POMPEY  THE  GREAT,"  ETC. 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 
1917 

All  rights  reserved 


COPTEIQHT,  1917 

BT  JOHN  MASEFIELD 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 
AND    OTHER    POEMS 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


So  I  have  known  this  life, 
These  beads  of  coloured  days, 
This  self  the  string. 
What  is  this  thing? 

Not  beauty;  no;  not  greed, 
O,  not  indeed; 
Not  all,  though  much; 
Its  colour  is  not  such. 

It  has  no  eyes  to  see, 
It  has  no  ears, 
It  is  a  red  hour's  war 
Followed  by  tears. 

It  is  an  hour  of  time, 

An  hour  of  road, 

Flesh  is  its  goad, 

Yet,  in  the  sorrowing  lands, 

Women  and  men  take  hands. 

7 


8  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

0  earth,  give  us  the  corn, 

Come  rain,  come  sun, 

We  men  who  have  been  born 

Have  tasks  undone. 

Out  of  this  earth 

Comes  the  thing  birth, 

The  thing  unguessed,  unwon. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  9 


II 

O  wretched  man,  that,  for  a  little  mile 
Crawls  beneath  heaven  for  his  brother's  blood, 
Whose  days  the  planets  number  with  their  style, 
To  whom  all  earth  is  slave,  all  living,  food; 

O  withering  man,  within  whose  folded  shell 
Lies  yet  the  seed,  the  spirit's  quickening  corn, 
That  Time  and  Sun  will  change  out  of  the  cell 
Into  green  meadows,  in  the  world  unborn; 

If  Beauty  be  a  dream,  do  but  resolve 
And  fire  shall  come,  that  in  the  stubborn  clay 
Works  to  make  perfect  till  the  rocks  dissolve, 
The  barriers  burst  and  Beauty  takes  her  way, 

Beauty  herself,  within  whose  blossoming  Spring 
Even  wretched  man  shall  clap  his  hands  and 
sing. 


10  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 


III 

Out  of  the  special  cell's  most  special  sense 
Came  the  suggestion  when  the  light  was 

sweet; 

All  skill,  all  beauty,  all  magnificence 
Are  hints  so  caught,  man's  glimpse  of  the 
complete. 

And,  though  the  body  rots,  that  sense  survives, 
Being  of  life's  own  essence  it  endures 

(Fruit  of  the  spirit's  tillage  in  men's  lives) 
Round  all  this  ghost  that  wandering  flesh 
immures. 

That  is  our  friend,  who,  when  the  iron  brain 
Assails,  or  the  earth  clogs,  or  the  sun  hides, 

Is  the  good  God  to  whom  none  calls  in  vain, 
Man's  Achieved  Good,  which,  being  Life, 
abides, 

The  man-made  God,  that  man  hi  happy  breath 
Makes  hi  despite  of  Tune  and  dusty  death. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  11 


IV 

You  are  the  link  which  binds  us  each  to  each. 
Passion,  or  too  much  thought,  alone  can  end 
Beauty,  the  ghost,  the  spirit's  common  speech, 
Which  man's  red  longing  left  us  for  our  friend. 

Even  in  the  blinding  war  I  have  known  this, 
That  flesh  is  but  the  carrier  of  a  ghost 
Who,  through  his  longing,  touches  that  which  is 
Even  as  the  sailor  knows  the  foreign  coast. 

So,  by  the  bedside  of  the  dying  black 
I  felt  our  uncouth  souls  subtly  made  one, 
Forgiven,  the  meanness  of  each  other's  lack, 
Forgiven,  the  petty  tale  of  ill  things  done. 

We  were  but  Man,  who  for  a  tale  of  days 
Seeks  the  one  city  by  a  million  ways. 


12  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 


I  could  not  sleep  for  thinking  of  the  sky, 
The  unending  sky,  with  all  its  million  suns 
Which  turn  their  planets  everlastingly 
In  nothing,  where  the  fire-haired  comet  runs. 

If  I  could  sail  that  nothing,  I  should  cross 
Silence  and  emptiness  with  dark  stars  passing, 
Then,  in  the  darkness,  see  a  point  of  gloss 
Burn  to  a  glow,  and  glare,  and  keep  amassing, 

And  rage  into  a  sun  with  wandering  planets 
And  drop  behind,  and  then,  as  I  proceed, 
See  his  last  light  upon  his  last  moon's  granites 
Die  to  a  dark  that  would  be  night  indeed. 

Night  where  my  soul  might  sail  a  million  years 
In  nothing,  not  even  Death,  not  even  tears. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  13 


VI 

How  did  the  nothing  come,  how  did  these  fires, 
These  million-leagues  of  fires,  first  toss  their 

hair, 

Licking  the  moons  from  heaven  in  their  ires 
Flinging  them  forth  for  them  to  wander  there? 

What  was  the  Mind?    Was  it  a  mind  which 

thought? 
Or  chance?    Or  law?    Or  conscious  law?    Or 

Power? 

Or  a  vast  balance  by  vast  clashes  wrought? 
Or  Time  at  trial  with  Matter  for  an  hour? 

Or  is  it  all  a  body  where  the  cells 
Are  living  things  supporting  something  strange 
Whose  mighty  heart  the  singing  planet  swells 
As  it  shoulders  nothing  hi  unending  change? 

Is  this  green  earth  of  many-peopled  pain 
Part  of  a  life,  a  cell  within  a  brain? 


14  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 


VII 

It  may  be  so;  but  let  the  unknown  be. 
We,  on  this  earth,  are  servants  of  the  sun. 
Out  of  the  sun  comes  all  the  quick  in  me, 
His  golden  touch  is  life  to  everyone. 

His  power  it  is  that  makes  us  spin  through  space, 
His  youth  is  April  and  his  manhood  bread, 
Beauty  is  but  a  looking  on  his  face, 
He  clears  the  mind,  he  makes  the  roses  red. 

What  he  may  be,  who  knows?    But  we  are  his, 
We  roll  through  nothing  round  him,  year  by 

year, 

The  withering  leaves  upon  a  tree  which  is 
Each  with  his  greed,  his  little  power,  his  fear. 

What  we  may  be,  who  knows?    But  everyone 
Is  dust  on  dust  a  servant  of  the  sun. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  15 

VIII 

The  Kings  go  by  with  jewelled  crowns, 

Their  horses  gleam,  their  banners  shake,  their 

spears  are  many. 
The  sack  of  many-peopled  towns 
Is  all  their  dream: 
The  way  they  take 
Leaves  but  a  ruin  in  the  break, 
And,  in  the  furrow  that  the  ploughmen  make, 
A  stampless  penny;  a  tale,  a  dream. 

The  merchants  reckon  up  their  gold, 

Their  letters   come,   their  ships  arrive,   their 

freights  are  glories: 
The  profits  of  their  treasures  sold 
They  tell  and  sum; 
Their  foremen  drive 
The  servants  starved  to  half-alive 
Whose  labours  do  but  make  the  earth  a  hive 
Of  stinking  stories,  a  tale,  a  dream. 

The  priests  are  singing  in  their  stalls, 

Their  singing  lifts,  then*  incense  burns,  their 

praying  clamours; 
Yet  God  is  as  the  sparrow  falls; 


16  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

The  ivy  drifts, 

The  votive  urns 

Are  all  left  void  when  Fortune  turns, 

The  god  is  but  a  marble  for  the  kerns 

To  break  with  hammers;  a  tale,  a  dream. 

O  Beauty,  let  me  know  again 

The  green  earth  cold,  the  April  rain,  the  quiet 

waters  figuring  sky, 
The  one  star  risen. 

So  shall  I  pass  into  the  feast 

Not  touched  by  King,  merchant  or  priest, 

Know  the  red  spirit  of  the  beast, 

Be  the  green  gram; 

Escape  from  prison. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  17 


IX 

What  is  this  life  which  uses  living  cells 
It  knows  not  how  nor  why,  for  no  known  end, 
This  soul  of  man  upon  whose  fragile  shells 
Of  blood  and  brain  his  very  powers  depend? 
Pour  out  its  little  blood  or  touch  its  brain 
The  thing  is  helpless,  gone,  no  longer  known, 
The  carrion  cells  are  never  man  again, 
No  hand  relights  the  little  candle  blown. 
It  comes  not  from  Without,  but  from  the  sperm 
Fed  in  the  womb,  it  is  a  man-made  thing, 
That  takes  from  man  its  power  to  live  a  term 
Served  by  live  cells  of  which  it  is  the  King. 
Can  it  be  blood  and  brain?    It  is  most  great, 
Through  blood  and  brain  alone  it  wrestles  Fate. 


18  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 


Can  it  be  blood  and  brain,  this  transient  force 
Which,  by  an  impulse,  seizes  flesh  and  grows 
To  man,  the  thing  less  splendid  than  the  horse, 
More  blind  than  owls,  less  lovely  than  the  rose? 
O,  by  a  power  unknown  it  works  the  cells 
Of  blood  and  brain;  it  has  the  power  to  see 
Beyond  the  apparent  thing  the  something  else 
Which  it  inspires  dust  to  bring  to  be. 
O,  blood  and  brain  are  its  imperfect  tools, 
Easily  wrecked,  soon  worn,  slow  to  attain, 
Only  by  years  of  toil  the  master  rules 
To  lovely  ends,  those  servants  blood  and  brain. 
And  Death,  a  touch,  a  germ,  has  still  the  force 
To  make  him  ev'n  as  the  rose,  the  owl,  the  horse. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  19 


XI 

Not  only  blood  and  brain  its  servants  are, 
There  is  a  finer  power  that  needs  no  slaves 
Whose  lovely  service  distance  cannot  bar 
Nor  the  green  sea  with  all  her  hell  of  waves, 
Nor  snowy  mountains,  nor  the  desert  sand, 
Nor  heat,  nor  storm,  it  bends  to  no  control, 
It  is  a  stretching  of  the  spirit's  hand 
To  touch  the  brother's  or  the  sister's  soul; 
So  that  from  darkness  in  the  narrow  room 
I  can  step  forth  and  be  about  her  heart, 
Needing  no  star,  no  lantern  in  the  gloom, 
No  word  from  her,  no  pointing  on  the  chart, 
Only  red  knowledge  of  a  window  flung 
Wide  to  the  night,  and  calling  without  tongue. 


20  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 


XII 

Drop  me  the  seed,  that  I,  even  in  my  brain 
May  be  its  nourishing  earth.    No  mortal  knows 
From  what  immortal  granary  comes  the  grain, 
Nor  how  the  earth  conspires  to  make  the  rose; 

But  from  the  dust  and  from  the  wetted  mud 
Comes  help,  given  or  taken;  so  with  me 
Deep  in  my  brain  the  essence  of  my  blood 
Shall  give  it  stature  until  Beauty  be. 

It  will  look  down,  even  as  the  burning  flower 
Smiles  upon  June,  long  after  I  am  gone. 
Dust-footed  Tune  will  never  tell  its  hour, 
Through  dusty  Time  its  rose  will  draw  men  on, 

Through  dusty  Tune  its  beauty  shall  make  plain 
Man,  and,  Without,  a  spirit  scattering  grain. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  21 

XIII 

Ah,  but  Without  there  is  no  spirit  scattering; 
Nothing  but  Life,  most  fertile  but  unwise, 
Passing  through  change  in  the  sun's  heat  and 

cloud's  watering, 
Pregnant  with  self,  unlit  by  inner  eyes. 

There  is  no  Sower,  nor  seed  for  any  tillage; 
Nothing  but  the  grey  brain's  pash,  and  the 

tense  will 

And  that  poor  fool  of  the  Being's  little  village 
Feeling  for  the  truth  in  the  little  veins  that 

thrill. 

There  is  no  Sowing,  but  digging,  year  by  year, 
In  a  hill's  heart,  now  one  way,  now  another, 
Till  the  rock  breaks  and  the  valley  is  made  clear 
And  the  poor  Fool  stands,  and  knows  the  sun 
for  his  brother 

And  the  Soul  shakes  wings  like  a  bird  escaped 

from  cage 
And  the  tribe  moves  on  to  camp  in  its  heritage. 


22  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 


XIV 

You  are  too  beautiful  for  mortal  eyes, 
You  the  divine  unapprehended  soul; 
The  red  worm  in  the  marrow  of  the  wise 
Stirs  as  you  pass,  but  never  sees  you  whole. 

Even  as  the  watcher  in  the  midnight  tower 
Knows  from  a  change  in  heaven  an  unseen  star, 
So  from  your  beauty,  so  from  the  summer 

flower, 
So  from  the  light,  one  guesses  what  you  are. 

So  in  the  darkness  does  the  traveller  come 
To  some  lit  chink,  through  which  he  cannot  see, 
More  than  a  light,  nor  hear,  more  than  a  hum, 
Of  the  great  hall  where  Kings  hi  council  be. 

So,  in  the  grave,  the  red  and  mouthless  worm 
Knows  of  the  soul  that  held  his  body  firm. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  23 


XV 

Is  it  a  sea  on  which  the  souls  embark 
Out  of  the  body,  as  men  put  to  sea? 
Or  do  we  come  like  candles  in  the  dark 
In  the  rooms  in  cities  in  eternity? 

Is  it  a  darkness  that  our  powers  can  light? 
Is  this,  our  little  lantern  of  man's  love, 
A  help  to  find  friends  wandering  in  the  night 
In  the  unknown  country  with  no  star  above? 

Or  is  it  sleep,  unknowing,  outlasting  clocks 
That  outlast  men,  that,  though  the  cockcrow 

ring, 

Is  but  one  peace,  of  the  substance  of  the  rocks, 
Is  but  one  space  in  the  now  unquickened  thing, 

Is  but  one  joy,  that,  though  the  million  tire, 
Is  one,  always  the  same,  one  life,  one  fire? 


THE  BLACKSMITH 

XVI 

The  blacksmith  in  his  sparky  forge 
Beat  on  the  white-hot  softness  there; 
Even  as  he  beat  he  sang  an  air 
To  keep  the  sparks  out  of  his  gorge. 

So  many  shoes  the  blacksmith  beat, 
So  many  shares  and  links  for  traces, 
So  many  builders'  struts  and  braces, 
Such  tackling  for  the  chain-fore-sheet, 

That,  in  his  pride,  big  words  he  spake; 
"I  am  the  master  of  my  trade, 
What  iron  is  good  for  I  have  made, 
I  make  what  is  in  iron  to  make." 

Daily  he  sang  thus  by  his  fire, 
Till  one  day,  as  he  poised  his  stroke 
Above  his  bar,  the  iron  spoke, 
"You  boaster,  drop  your  hammer,  liar." 

24 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  25 

The  hammer  dropped  out  of  his  hand, 
The  iron  rose,  it  gathered  shape, 
It  took  the  blacksmith  by  the  nape, 
It  pressed  him  to  the  furnace,  and 

Heaped  fire  upon  him  till  his  form 
Was  molten,  flinging  sparks  aloft, 
Until  his  bones  were  melted  soft, 
His  hairs  crisped  in  a  fiery  storm. 

The  iron  drew  him  from  the  blaze 
To  place  him  on  the  anvil,  then 
It  beat  him  from  the  shape  of  men, 
Like  drugs  the  apothecary  brays; 

Beat  him  to  ploughing-coulters,  beat 
Body  and  blood  to  links  of  chain, 
With  endless  hammerings  of  pain, 
Unending  torment  of  white  heat; 

And  did  not  stop  the  work,  but  still 
Beat  on  him  while  the  furnace  roared; 
The  blacksmith  suffered  and  implored, 
With  iron  bonds  upon  his  will. 


26  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

And,  though  he  could  not  die  nor  shrink, 
He  felt  his  being  beat  by  force 
To  horse  shoes  stamped  on  by  the  horse, 
And  into  troughs  whence  cattle  drink. 

He  felt  his  blood,  his  dear  delight, 

Beat  into  shares,  he  felt  it  rive 

The  green  earth  red;  he  was  alive, 

Dragged  through  the  earth  by  horses'  might. 

He  felt  his  brain,  that  once  had  planned 
His  daily  life,  changed  to  a  chain 
Which  curbed  a  sail  or  dragged  a  wain, 
Or  hoisted  ship-loads  to  the  land. 

He  felt  his  heart,  that  once  had  thrilled 
With  love  of  wife  and  little  ones, 
Cut  out  and  mingled  with  his  bones 
To  pin  the  bricks  where  men  rebuilt. 

He  felt  his  very  self  impelled 

To  common  uses,  till  he  cried, 

"  There's  more  within  me  than  is  tried, 

More  than  you  ever  think  to  weld. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  27 

"For  all  my  pain  I  am  only  used 
To  make  the  props  for  daily  labor; 
I  burn,  I  am  beaten  like  a  tabor 
To  make  men  tools;  I  am  abused. 

"Deep  in  the  white  heat  where  I  gasp 
I  see  the  unmastered  finer  powers, 
Iron  by  cunning  wrought  to  flowers, 
File-worked,  not  tortured  by  the  rasp. 

"Deep  hi  this  fire-tortured  mind 
Thought  bends  the  bar  in  subtler  ways, 
It  glows  into  the  mass,  its  rays 
Purge,  till  the  iron  is  refined. 

"Then,  as  the  full  moon  draws  the  tide 
Out  of  the  vague  uncaptained  sea, 
Some  moon  power  there  ought  to  be 
To  work  on  ore;  it  should  be  tried. 

"By  this  fierce  fire  in  which  I  ache 
I  see  new  fires  not  yet  begun, 
A  blacksmith  smithying  with  the  sun, 
At  unmade  things  man  ought  to  make. 


28  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

"Life  is  not  fire  and  blows,  but  thought, 
Attention  kindling  into  joy, 
Those  who  make  nothing  new  destroy, 
O  me,  what  evil  I  have  wrought. 

"O  me,"  and  as  he  moaned  he  saw 
His  iron  master  shake,  he  felt 
No  blow,  nor  did  the  fire  melt 
His  flesh,  he  was  released  from  law. 

He  sat  upon  the  anvil  top 
Dazed,  as  the  iron  was  dazed,  he  took 
Strength,  seeing  that  the  iron  shook, 
He  said,  "This  cruel  time  must  stop." 

He  seized  the  iron  and  held  him  fast 
With  pincers,  in  the  midmost  blaze, 
A  million  sparks  went  million  ways, 
The  cowhorn  handle  plied  the  blast. 

"Burn,  then,"  he  cried;  the  fire  was  white, 
The  iron  was  whiter  than  the  fire. 
The  fireblast  made  the  embers  twire, 
The  blacksmith's  arm  began  to  smite. 


WLLINGDON  DOWNS  29 

First  vengeance  for  old  pain,  and  then 
Beginning  hope  of  better  things, 
Then  swordblades  for  the  sides  of  Kings 
And  corselets  for  the  breasts  of  men. 

And  crowns  and  such  like  joys  and  gems, 
And  stars  of  honour  for  the  pure, 
Jewels  of  honour  to  endure, 
Beautiful  women's  diadems. 

And  coulters,  sevenfold-twinned,  to  rend, 
And  girders  to  uphold  the  tower, 
Harness  for  unimagined  power, 
New  ships  to  make  the  billows  bend, 

And  stores  of  fire-compelling  things 
By  which  men  dominate  and  pierce 
The  iron-imprisoned  universe 
Where  angels  lie  with  banded  wings. 


COTTA 

Lucius 
THEIR  CHIEF 


THE  FRONTIER 

COTTA 

Would  God  the  route  would  come  for  home. 
My  God,  this  place,  day  after  day, 
A  month  of  heavy  march  from  Rome. 
This  camp,  the  troopers'  huts  of  clay, 
The  horses  tugging  at  their  pins, 
The  roaring  brook  and  then  the  whins 
And  nothing  new  to  do  or  say. 

Lucius 
They  say  the  tribes  are  up. 

COTTA 

Who  knows? 

Lucius 
Our  scouts  say  that  they  saw  their  fires. 

COTTA 

Well,  if  we  fight  it's  only  blows 
And  bogging  horses  in  the  mires. 

33 


34  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

Lucius 

Their  raiders  crossed  the  line  last  night, 
Eastward  from  this,  to  raid  the  stud, 
They  stole  our  old  chief's  stallion,  Kite. 
He's  in  pursuit. 

COTTA 

That  looks  like  blood. 

Lucius 

Well,  better  that  than  dicing  here 
Beside  this  everlasting  stream. 

COTTA 

My  God,  I  was  in  Rome  last  year, 
Under  the  sun,  it  seems  a  dream. 

Lucius 

Things  are  not  going  well  in  Rome, 
This  frontier  war  is  wasting  men 
Like  water,  and  the  Tartars  come 
In  hordes. 

COTTA 
We  beat  them  back  again. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  35 

Lucius 

So  far  we  have,  and  yet  I  feel 
The  Empire  is  too  wide  a  bow 
For  one  land's  strength. 

COTTA 

The  stuff's  good  steel. 

Lucius 

Too  great  a  strain  may  snap  it  though. 
If  we  were  ordered  home.  .  .  . 

COTTA 

Good  Lord  .  .  . 

Lucius 

If  ...  Then  our  friends,  the  tribesmen  there 
Would  have  glad  days. 

COTTA 

This  town  would  flare 
To  warm  old  Foxfoot  and  his  horde. 

Lucius 

We  have  not  been  forethoughtful  here, 
Pressing  the  men  to  fill  the  ranks 
Centurions  sweep  the  province  clear. 


36  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

COTTA 
Rightly. 

Lucius 


Perhaps. 


COTTA 
We  get  no  thanks. 


Lucius 

We  strip  the  men  for  troops  abroad 
And  leave  the  women  and  the  slaves 
For  merchants  and  then-  kind.    The  graves 
Of  half  each  province  line  the  road. 
These  people  could  not  stand  a  day 
Against  the  tribes,  with  us  away. 

COTTA 
Rightly. 

Lucius 
Perhaps. 

COTTA 
Here  comes  the  Chief. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  37 

Lucius 
Sir,  did  your  riders  catch  the  thief? 

CHIEF 

No,  he  got  clear  and  keeps  the  horse 
But  bad  news  always  conies  with  worse. 
The  frontier's  fallen,  we're  recalled, 
Our  army's  broken,  Rome's  appalled, 
My  God,  the  whole  world's  in  a  blaze. 
So  now,  we've  done  with  idle  days 
Fooling  on  frontiers.    Boot  and  start. 
It  gives  a  strange  feel  in  the  heart 
To  think  that  this,  that  Rome  has  made, 
Is  done  with.    Yes,  the  stock's  decayed. 
We  march  at  once.    You  mark  my  words, 
We're  done,  we're  crumbled  into  sherds, 
We  shall  not  see  this  place  again 
When  once  we  go. 

Lucius 
Do  none  remain? 

CHIEF 

No,  none,  all  march.    Here  ends  the  play. 
March,  and  burn  camp.    The  order's  gone, 
Your  men  have  sent  your  baggage  on. 


38  WLLINGDON  DOWNS 

COTTA 
My  God,  hark  how  the  trumpets  bray. 

CHIEF 

They  do.    You  see  the  end  of  things. 
The  power  of  a  thousand  kings 
Helped  us  to  this,  and  now  the  power 
Is  so  much  hay  that  was  a  flower. 

Lucius 
We  have  been  very  great  and  strong. 

CHIEF 
That's  over  now. 

Lucius 
It  will  be  long 
Before  the  world  will  see  our  like. 

CHIEF 

We've  kept  these  thieves  beyond  the  dyke 
A  good  long  tune,  here  on  the  Wall. 

Lucius 

Colonel,  we  ought  to  sound  a  call 
To  mark  the  end  of  this. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  39 

CHIEF 

We  ought. 

Look.    There's  the  hill  top  where  we  fought 
Old  Foxfoot.    Look,  there  in  the  whin. 
Old  ruffian  knave.    Come  on.    Fall  in. 


40 


Night  is  on  the  downland,  on  the  lonely  moor- 
land, 

On  the  hills  where  the  wind  goes  over  sheep- 
bitten  turf, 

Where  the  bent  grass  beats  upon  the  unploughed 
poorland 

And  the  pine  woods  roar  like  the  surf. 

Here   the  Roman   lived   on   the  wind-barren 

lonely, 

Dark  now  and  haunted  by  the  moorland  fowl; 
None  comes  here  now  but  the  peewit  only, 
And  moth-like  death  in  the  owl. 

Beauty  was  here,  on  this  beetle-droning  down- 
land; 

The  thought  of  a  Caesar  in  the  purple  came 

From  the  palace  by  the  Tiber  in  the  Roman 
townland 

To  this  wind-swept  hill  with  no  name. 

Lonely  Beauty  came  here  and  was  here  in  sad- 
ness, 
Brave  as  a  thought  on  the  frontier  of  the  mind, 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  41 

In  the  camp  of  the  wild  upon  the  march  of 

madness, 
The  bright-eyed  Queen  of  the  blind. 

Now  where  Beauty  was  are  the  wind-withered 

gorses 

Moaning  like  old  men  in  the  hill-wind's  blast, 
The  flying  sky  is  dark  with  running  horses 
And  the  night  is  full  of  the  past. 


MIDNIGHT 

XIX 

The  fox  came  up  by  Stringer's  Pound, 

He  smelt  the  south  west  warm  on  the  ground, 

From  west  to  east  a  feathery  smell 

Of  blood  on  the  wing-quills  tasting  well. 

A  buck's  hind  feet  thumped  on  the  sod, 

The  whip-like  grass  snake  went  to  clod, 

The  dog-fox  put  his  nose  in  the  air 

To  taste  what  food  was  wandering  there. 

Under  the  clover  down  the  hill 

A  hare  in  form  that  knew  his  will. 

Up  the  hill,  the  warren  awake 

And  the  badger  shewing  teeth  like  a  rake. 

Down  the  hill  the  two  twin  thorpes 

Where  the  crying  night  owl  waked  the  corpse, 

And  the  moon  on  the  stilly  windows  bright 

Instead  of  a  dead  man's  waking  light. 

The  cock  on  his  perch  that  shook  his  wing 

When  the  clock  struck  for  the  chimes  to  ring, 

A  duck  that  muttered,  a  rat  that  ran 

And  a  horse  that  stamped,  remembering  man. 

42 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  43 

XX 

Up  on  the  downs  the  red-eyed  kestrels  hover 
Eyeing  the  grass. 

The  field  mouse  flits  like  a  shadow  into  cover 
As  their  shadows  pass. 

Men  are  burning  the  gorse  on  the  down's  shoul- 
der, 

A  drift  of  smoke 

Glitters  with  fire  and  hangs,  and  the  skies 
smoulder, 

And  the  lungs  choke. 

Once  the  tribe  did  thus  on  the  downs,  on  these 

downs,  burning 
Men  in  the  frame, 
Crying  to  the  gods  of  the  downs  till  their  brains 

were  turning 
And  the  gods  came. 

And  to-day  on  the  downs,  in  the  wind,  the 

hawks,  the  grasses, 
In  blood  and  ah-, 

Something  passes  me  and  cries  as  it  passes, 
On  the  chalk  downland  bare. 


44  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

XXI 

No  man  takes  the  farm, 
Nothing  grows  there, 
The  ivy's  arm 
Strangles  the  rose  there. 

Old  Fanner  Kyrle 
Farmed  there  the  last; 
He  beat  his  girl; 
(It's  seven  years  past). 

After  market  it  was 
He  beat  his  girl; 
He  liked  his  glass, 
Old  Farmer  Kyrle. 

Old  Kyrle's  son 
Said  to  his  father, 
"Now,  dad,  you  ha'  done, 
I'll  kill  you  rather. 

"Stop  beating  sister 
Or  by  God  I'll  kill  you." 
Kyrle  was  full  of  liquor. 
Old  Kyrle  said,  "Will  you?" 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  45 

Kyrle  took  his  cobb'd  stick 
And  beat  his  daughter. 
He  said,  "I'll  teach  my  chick 
As  a  father  oughter." 

Young  Will,  the  son, 
Heard  his  sister  shriek, 
He  took  his  gun 
Quick  as  a  streak. 

He  said,  "Now,  dad, 
Stop,  once  for  all." 
He  was  a  good  lad, 
Good  at  kicking  the  ball. 

His  father  clubbed 
The  girl  on  the  head. 
Young  Will  upped        , 
And  shot  him  dead. 

"Now,  sister,"  said  Will, 
"  I've  a-killed  father, 
As  I  said  I'd  kill. 
O  my  love,  I'd  rather 


46  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

"A  kill  him  again 
Than  see  you  suffer. 

0  my  little  Jane, 

Kiss  goodbye  to  your  brother. 

1  won't  see  you  again, 
Nor  the  cows  homing, 
Nor  the  mice  in  the  grain, 
Nor  the  primrose  coming, 

Nor  the  fair,  nor  folk, 
Nor  the  summer  flowers 
Growing  on  the  wold 
Nor  aught  that's  ours. 

Not  Tib  the  cat, 
Not  Stub  the  mare, 
Nor  old  dog  Pat 
Never  anywhere. 

For  I'll  be  hung 
In  Gloucester  prison 
When  the  bell's  rung 
And  the  sun's  risen. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  47 

They  hanged  Will 
As  Will  said, 
With  one  thrill 
They  choked  him  dead. 

Jane  walked  the  wold 
Like  a  grey  gander; 
All  grown  old 
She  would  wander. 

She  died  soon. 
At  high  tide 
At  full  moon 
Jane  died. 

The  brook  chatters 
As  at  first, 
The  farm  it  waters 
Is  accurst; 

No  man  takes  it, 
Nothing  grows  there, 
Blood  straiks  it, 
A  ghost  goes  there. 


48 


A  hundred  years  ago,  they  quarried  for  the 

stone  here; 
The  carts  came  through  the  wood  by  the  track 

still  plain; 
The  drills  shew  in  the  rock  where  the  blasts 

were  blown  here, 
They  shew  up  dark  after  rain. 

Then  the  last  cart  of  stone  went  away  through 

the  wood, 
To  build  the  great  house  for  some  April  of  a 

woman, 
Till  her  beauty  stood  hi  stone,  as  her  man's 

thought  made  it  good, 
And  the  dumb  rock  was  made  human. 

The  house  still  stands,  but  the  April  of  its 

glory 
Is  gone,  long  since,  with  the  beauty  that  has 

gone, 
She  wandered  away  west,  it  is  an  old  sad 

story, 
It  is  best  not  talked  upon. 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  49 

And  the  man  has  gone,  too,  but  the  quarry  that 

he  made, 

Whenever  April  comes  as  it  came  in  old  time, 
Is  a  dear  delight  to  the  man  who  loves  a  maid, 
For  the  primrose  comes  from  the  lime.  .  .  . 

And   the  blackbird  builds  below   the  catkin 

shaking 
And  the  sweet  white  violets  are  beauty  in  the 

blood, 
And  daffodils  are  there,  and  the  blackthorn 

blossom  breaking 
Is  a  wild  white  beauty  in  bud. 


50  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

XXIII 

Here  the  legion  halted,  here  the  ranks  were 

broken, 

And  the  men  fell  out  to  gather  wood, 
And  the  green  wood  smoked,  and  bitter  words 

were  spoken, 
And  the  trumpets  called  to  food. 

And  the  sentry  on  the  rampart  saw  the  distance 
dying 

In  the  smoke  of  distance  blue  and  far, 

And  heard  the  curlew  calling  and  the  owl  reply- 
ing 

As  the  night  came  cold  with  one  star; 

And  thought  of  home  beyond,  over  moorland, 

over  marshes, 
Over  hills,  over  the  sea,  across  the  plains,  across 

the  pass, 
By  a  bright  sea  trodden  by  the  ships  of  Tar- 

shis, 
The  farm,  with  cicadse  in  the  grass. 

And  thought,  as  I,  "  Perhaps  I  may  be  done 
with  living 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  51 

To-morrow,  when  we  fight.    I  shall  see  those 

souls  no  more. 

O,  beloved  souls,  be  beloved  in  forgiving 
The  deeds  and  the  words  that  make  me  sore." 


52  LOLLINGDON  DOWNS 

XXIV 

We  danced  away  care  till  the  fiddler's  eyes 

blinked, 
And  at  supper,  at  midnight,  our  wine-glasses 

chinked, 
Then  we  danced  till  the  roses  that  hung  round 

the  wall 

Were  broken  red  petals  that  did  rise  and  did  fall 
To  the  ever-turning  couples  of  the  bright-eyed 

and  gay, 
Singing  in  the  midnight  to  dance  care  away. 

Then  the  dancing  died  out  and  the  carriages 

came, 
And  the  beauties  took  their  cloaks  and  the  men 

did  the  same, 
And  the  wheels  crunched  the  gravel  and  the 

lights  were  turned  down, 
And  the  tired  beauties  dozed  through  the  cold 

drive  to  town. 

Nan  was  the  belle  and  she  married  her  beau, 
Who  drank,  and  then  beat  her,  and  she  died 
long  ago, 


LOLLINGDON  DOWNS  53 

And  Mary,  her  sister,  is  married  and  gone 
To  a  tea  planter's  lodge,  in  the  plains,  in  Ceylon. 

And  Dorothy's  sons  have  been  killed  out  in 

France, 

And  May  lost  her  man  in  the  August  advance, 
And  Em,  the  man  jilted,  and  she  lives  all  alone 
In  the  house  of  this  dance  which  seems  burnt 

hi  my  bone. 

Margaret  and  Susan  and  Marian  and  Phyllis 
With  red  lips  laughing  and  the  beauty  of  lilies 
And  the  grace  of  wild  swans  and  a  wonder  of 

bright  hair, 
Dancing  among  roses  with  petals  in  the  air. 

All,  all  are  gone,  and  Hetty's  little  maid 
Is  so  like  her  mother  that  it  makes  me  afraid. 
And  Rosalind's  son,  whom  I  passed  in  the  street, 
Clinked  on  the  pavement  with  the  spurs  on  his 
feet.